Chasing Light and Learning Curves
Light filters through my studio (garage) differently these days – longer, warmer, with that particular quality that sadness that summer won’t be herwe much longer. While the weather is still warm and beautiful, I find myself drawn outdoors more than ever, not just for inspiration but for the actual treasures that fuel my work.
There's something magical about hunting for stones and materials while Wyoming is still warm. Whether I'm combing through creek beds for river-worn agates or discovering unexpected gems at local rock shops, these late-season adventures feel more precious knowing that soon enough, winter will return.
The Dance of Creation and Frustration
Back at the bench, these gathered treasures become the foundation for pieces that sometimes cooperate beautifully – and sometimes test every ounce of patience I possess. Just last week, I spent three days on a silver pendant setting that seemed determined to fight me at every turn. The stone kept shifting, the bail would not align (or solder in place) and I may have had a few choice words for my soldering torch.
But that's the thing about metalsmithing – it's teaching me as much about persistence as it is about technique. Every "failed" piece becomes a lesson. Every successfully completed work feels like a small victory against the laws of physics and my own learning curve.
New Skills, Old Challenges
I'm constantly pushing myself to learn new techniques, whether it's experimenting with different texturing methods or finally tackling that custom piece with the tiny intricate drangonfly I've been avoiding. YouTube has become my unofficial professor, and my studio floor tells the story of countless practice attempts. Some days I feel like I'm making real progress; other days, I'm reminded that mastery is a long game.
The learning doesn't stop at the workbench, either. Figuring out social media feels almost as challenging as perfecting a bezel setting. How do you capture the essence of handmade work in a quick Instagram post? How do you translate the hours of careful planning and execution into content that connects with people scrolling through their feeds?
Building Something from Nothing
Speaking of digital challenges, I'm in the midst of creating something I never thought I'd need to understand: a website. www.chasing-stones.com will soon be live (fingers crossed), and the process of building an online presence feels a bit like learning a new metalsmithing technique – lots of trial and error, occasional moments of clarity, and the persistent feeling that I'm just one tutorial away from everything clicking into place.
The Season of Making
As these warm days gradually give way, I'm grateful for this season of making and learning. Each piece I create carries a bit of the summer's treasure hunts, the frustrations worked through at the bench, and the growing confidence that comes from pushing through challenges rather than around them.
Whether you're following along on social media (once I figure out how to use it properly) or waiting for the website launch, thank you for being part of this journey. There's something deeply satisfying about creating beautiful, one-of-a-kind pieces while simultaneously learning that the process – messy, challenging, and rewarding – might be just as valuable as the finished work.
Until next time, I'll be chasing stones and chasing skills, making the most of these golden days while they last.
From Medicine to Metal: My Journey as a Healing Artist
It all begins with an idea.
There's something poetic about how life leads us down unexpected paths. After a particularly draining day at the clinic last spring, I found myself sitting at my workbench, feeling the weight of the sterling silver in my hands, and realizing that I had finally found my balance.
As a primary care practitioner, I spend my days healing others. But who heals the healer? For me, the answer came unexpectedly through metal and stone.
What began as "just a hobby" to escape the stress of medical practice has blossomed into something that feeds my soul in ways I never anticipated. My husband jokes that I traded one career for another, but there's truth there—both medicine and metalsmithing require precision, patience, and presence.
Our weekends now revolve around adventures that fuel my creativity. Last summer, we hiked through the Shoshone National Forrest in Northern Wyoming, where I discovered the most incredible jasper, its rusty reds and oranges mimicking the sunset we watched from our campsite that evening. By the following weekend, that stone had become a statement ring that has become one of my own. I just can’t seem to let it go.
There's nothing quite like the thrill of spotting a promising stone half-buried in mountain soil or beach sand. My husband has become my partner in this creative venture—his lapidary skills transforming our rocky treasures while I dream up settings that honor each stone's journey.
I've come to see that turquoise and larimar speak to me differently depending on the season or even my mood. Sometimes I crave the grounding earthiness of copper, other days only the bright clarity of sterling silver will do. Occasionally, someone will bring me special stones or gems that they have come across while on vacation. Recently, I made a 25th anniversary set for a very sweet couple out of thulite. His a hollow form ring and hers a double banded ring. The thulite was an amazing shade of dark pink. It came from an adventure that they took to Bergan Norway.
What makes my heart sing is knowing that each piece carries a story—not just mine, but soon yours too. When a client tells me they wore their pendant to a job interview for courage or that their bracelet reminds them to pause and breathe during hectic moments, I feel that same satisfaction that comes from a successful diagnosis.
My jewelry sits at the intersection of wild places and everyday life. It's designed for people like me—those who climb mountains on Saturday and lead meetings on Monday, who need pieces versatile enough to complement hiking boots and heels alike.
In medicine, we talk about treating the whole person. In my metalwork, I create for the whole life—pieces that transition seamlessly between worlds while keeping you connected to the healing power of nature, no matter where your day takes you.
What started as refuge has become revelation. These pieces aren't just jewelry; they're reminders of balance, adventure, and finding extraordinary beauty in ordinary places—something we could all use a little more of, don't you think?